Greene, Robert · published 1630 · first performed or written 1589 [1586-1590] (Annals) comedy · Queen Elizabeth's Men T15 Friars and holy orders in plot typicality 0.71 · 512 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T15: friar, lord, holy, friars, robin, peggy, lacie, angelo, love, nun.
I see the keeper's lovely lass appear, As bright-sun as the Paramour of Mars, Only attended by a jolly friar. Sit still and keep the crystal in your eye. But tell me friar Bungay, is it true, That this fair courteous Country Swain, Who says his father is a Farmer nigh, Can be Lord Lacy Earl of Lincolnshire. Peggie 'tis true, 'tis Lacy for my life: Or else mine Art and cunning both do fail, Left by Prince Edward to procure his loves: For he in green that holp to run your cheese, Is son to Henry, and the Prince of Wales. Be what he will, his lure is but for lust. But did Lord Lacie like poor Marg'ret, Or would he deign to wed a Country Lass? friar, I would his humble handmaid be, And for great wealth, 'quite him with courtesy. Why Marg'ret dost love him? His personage like the pride of vaunting Troy, Might well avouch to shadow Helen's cape: His wit is quick and ready in conceit, As Greece afforded in her chiefest prime Courteous, ah friar full of pleasing smiles, Trust me I love too much; to tell thee more, Suffice to me he is England's Paramour. Hath not each eye that viewed thy pleasing face, Surnamed thee fair maid of Fressingfield? Yes Bungay, and would God the lovely Earl Had that in esse, that so many sought. Fear not, the friar will not be behind, To show his cunning to entangle Love. I think the friar courts the bonny wench, Bacon, methinks he is a lusty churl. Now look, my Lord. gog's wounds Bacon, here comes Lacy. Sit still my Lord, and mark the Comedy. Here's Lacy, Marg'ret, step aside a while. Daphne the Damsel, that caught Phoebus fast, And locked him in the brightness of her looks, Was not so beauteous in Apollo's eyes, As is fair Marg'ret to the Lincoln Earl, Recant thee: Lacy, thou art put in trust, Edward thy sovereign's son hath chosen thee A secret friend to court her for himself: And darest thou wrong thy Prince with treachery? Lacy, Love makes no exception of a friend, Nor deems it of a Prince, but as a man: Honour bids me control him in his lust, His wooing is not for to wed the girl, But to entrap her and beguile the lass: Lacy, thou lovest, then brook not such abuse, But wed her, and abide thy PRINCE's frown: For die, then see her live disgraced. Come, friar, I will shake him from his dumps, How cheer you sir, a penny for your thought: you're early up, pray God it be the near', what are come from Beccles in a morn so soon? Thus watchful are such men as live in love, Whose eyes brook broken slumbers for their sleep. I tell thee, Peggie, since last Harlston fair, My mind hath felt a heap of passions. A trusty man that court it for your friend, Woo you still for the Courtier all in green? I marvel that he sues not for himself.
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 529–593 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 11 of 33 in this edition
Length
512 words · 721 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T15 — Friars and holy orders in plotcross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.714 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
Other seeds
seed 43: T19 · seed 44: T20 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
I ſee the Keepers louely laſſe appeare, As bright-ſunne as the Paramour of Mars, Onely attended by a iolly Fryer. Sit ſtill and keepe the criſtall in your eye. But tell me Fryer Bungay, is it true, That this faire courteous Country Swaine, Who ſayes his father is a Farmer nye, Can be Lord Lacy Earle of Lincolnſhire. Peggie 'tis true, 'tis Lacy for my life: Or elſe mine Art and cunning both doe faile, Left by Prince Edward to procure his loues: For he in greene that holpe to run your cheeſe, Is ſonne to Henry, and the Prince of Wales. Be what he will, his lure is but for luſt. But did Lord Lacie like poore Margret, Or would he daine to wed a Countrie Laſſe? Fryer, I would his humble hand-maid be, And for great wealth, quite him with courteſie. Why Margret doſt loue him? His perſonage like the pride of vaunting Troy, Might well auouch to ſhadow Hellens cape: His wit is quicke and ready in conceit, As Greece affoorded in her chiefeſt prime Courteous, ah Fryer full of pleaſing ſmiles, Truſt me I loue too much; to tell thee more, Suffice to me he is Englands Paramour. Hath not each eye that viewd thy pleaſing face, Surnamed thee faire mayd of Freſingfield? Yes Bungay, and would God the louely Earle Had that in eſſe, that ſo many ſought. Feare not, the Fryer will not be behind, To ſhew his cunning to entangle Loue. I thinke the Fryer courts the bonny wench, Bacon, me thinkes he is a luſtie churle. Now looke, my Lord. Gogs wounds Bacon, here comes Lacy. Sit ſtill my Lord, and marke the Comedy. Here's Lacy, Margret, ſtep aſide a while. Daphne the Damſell, that caught Phoebus faſt, And lockt him in the brightneſſe of her lookes, Was not ſo beautious in Apollo's eyes, As is faire Margret to the Lincolne Earle, Recant thee: Lacy, thou art put in truſt, Edward thy Soueraignes ſon hath choſen thee A ſecret friend to court her for himſelfe: And dareſt thou wrong thy Prince with trecherie▪ Lacy, Loue makes no exception of a friend, Nor deemes it of a Prince, but as a man: Honour bids me controll him in his luſt, His wooing is not for to wed the girle, But to intrap her and beguile the laſſe: Lacy, thou loueſt, then brooke not ſuch abuſe, But wed her, and abide thy Princes frowne: For dye, then ſee her liue diſgrac'd. Come, Fryer, I will ſhake him from his dumpes, How cheere you ſir, a penny for your thought: Your early vp, pray God it be the neere, What 'are come from Beckles in a morne ſo ſoone? Thus watchfull are ſuch men as liue in loue, Whoſe eyes brooke broken ſlumbers for their ſleepe. I tell thee, Peggie, ſince laſt Harlſton faire, My minde hath felt a heape of paſſions. A truſty man that court it for your friend, Woo you ſtill for the Courtier all in greene? I maruell that he ſues not for himſelfe.